The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(89)

‘I can’t.’

He gets to his feet and walks away from me, and hot, sudden fury ignites in my gut.

‘You mean you won’t,’ I say, and he spins back round, his arms flung wide.

‘Look around you, Lydia. Look at this room. Who do you think paid for us to come to a place like this? Fucking Santa Claus?’

‘Oh,’ I say, feeling stupid as the penny drops. ‘Oh, I get it now. The company paid for this, so now we owe them, right? Was this the plan all along then?’

He’s angry now, exasperated. ‘Of course it bloody wasn’t. It’s been booked for months, you know that. But things happen sometimes, it’s just bad timing, that’s all.’

‘Bad timing?’ I half yell. ‘Bad timing? This isn’t bad timing, Freddie.’ I’m so angry I’m shaking. I’ve moved mountains to be here with him, for this precious uninterrupted time. ‘This is way beyond bad timing. This is us, you and me, our once-in-a-lifetime honeymoon. Doesn’t that matter more than sodding work?’

He stares at me. ‘Why are you being like this? Surely you can see how hard this is for me?’ he says, almost as if I’m the one being unreasonable. ‘Do you think I want to have to do this?’

‘I think you could say no if you wanted to.’

He looks as if I’ve slapped him.

‘I don’t know what’s happened to you lately,’ he says.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He shrugs. ‘You’re just … I don’t know, different. Always ready for a row.’

I laugh, because surely anyone would be argumentative under the circumstances. ‘Well, excuse me for saying what I think,’ I mutter. ‘So, what am I supposed to do while you’re off in LA? Go for breakfast at Tiffany’s alone, watch Wicked with an empty seat beside me?’

He wipes his hand down his face. ‘I’ll rebook them. We’ll go on Thursday. I can make it work.’

We both know he can’t, and it isn’t even the point.

‘If you do this …’ I say, not even sure what I’m about to say next.

He looks at me, silent for a few charged beats, and then turns away and pulls the suitcase from the wardrobe. I sink down into the armchair and watch him throw things into the case. It’s desolate, just awful to see our honeymoon in tatters.

‘Please don’t go.’ I stand up and try one last time. ‘This is too important.’

He looks at me, and I know from his face that he’s not going to change his mind.

‘You could make this easier on me,’ he says. ‘You could use the spa, wallow around in the bath, enjoy the city for a couple of days until I get back. But you won’t do that, will you?’

We stare at each other. He means it, and it dawns on me that the woman I used to be would probably be able to find it in herself to do the things he’s just suggested. To allow him to leave without guilt, to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, to grudgingly accept the change of plan. Only I’m not that woman any more. I’ve been through the worst thing life could possibly throw at me, I’ve had to find strength I didn’t know I had, and it’s changed me. I’m not the same person now. Lydia here hasn’t lived through disaster. It’s not just the toned arms or the good thighs. It’s the way my brain is wired, the way my heart loves. Freddie’s right, I am different, and the realization that I don’t really fit here any more breaks my heart.

He’s dressed now, his case packed.

‘I’ll see you when I get back,’ he says, raw. ‘Try not to hate me.’

I look at him, hurt beyond measure. I don’t say anything because I’m not capable of offering the soothing words he wants to hear.

He nods, hesitates as if he wants to say more, but doesn’t. He picks up his suitcase and leaves.





Tuesday 23 July


Everything is wrong. I came to Croatia to be with Freddie, blissful and uninterrupted. To picnic in Central Park, to take in a show on Broadway, to try on diamonds we could never afford in Tiffany’s. We were going to throw away the guidebooks and wander the backstreets in search of our own adventure, admire brownstones, eat delicious things in cafes that don’t rate well on TripAdvisor. We were going to do all of those marvellous things, but I’ve now realized that making new memories with Freddie means I’m trampling on my old precious memories of him.

I’ve turned our bruising argument over in my head a thousand times, examined it from every angle, trying to find something that isn’t there because my stubborn heart is desperate not to admit the truth. That the girl I used to be would likely have found it in herself to let Freddie leave, she’d have understood that he needed to go. Try not to hate me, he said; I feel sick remembering the look on his face. But I can’t shake the fact that the girl I am now knows it would have been wrong to accept him leaving. Damn it, Freddie should have said no to Vince, he should have put us first. But he didn’t, and I can’t square that with myself.

The thing about losing the love of your life is that you get to make up what would have happened afterwards. You’re entitled to dream all of your tomorrows would have been perfect because you loved them so much, you’re allowed to flex and bend every situation in your head so they’d say and do all the right things. Your love story never really ends because your brain paints them into every photograph and they’re there beside you on all of your special days. They don’t argue with you or fall short of your expectations, they don’t make questionable decisions and they absolutely, categorically, never run out on you halfway through your honeymoon.